The Vorrh

constantly flitted and settled on things to embrace their shape and meaning. They looked into the tangled garden of the Persian carpet, imagining all kinds of Arabesque creatures hiding within. They stroked the curved legs of a dark mahogany chair and rolled smoothly over its satin cushion. They took in the squat shadow that crouched behind the chair, swept over to the bright brass of the fireguard, then flicked quickly back to the shadow to look more deeply.
    There must have been a shock of recognition, because something awoke Ghertrude. She flinched and pulled herself up, realising her embarrassing position. Still confused and wiping drool from her face, she noticed thin traces of it on Cyrena’s blouse. ‘Oh, oh, I am so sorry!’ she spluttered. ‘Please, forgive me, this is dreadful.’
    She arose quickly and staggered back, still unbalanced from her folded sleep and the sticky webs of its unformed images. Cyrena was on her feet and ready for her fall, her hands outspread. Ghertrude righted herself and looked at her friend, clasping both Cyrena’s hands in her own. She had returned, secure in her old self.
    ‘You must think me such a fool, how can I ever apologise? I am so sorry, I have not slept for three nights and my nerves are worn ragged.’ She again noticed Cyrena’s crumpled, wet blouse and her own dampness. ‘Please, forgive me. You have been such a dear friend and I have treated you terribly. I will get something warm for you to wear and light a fire; it is cold in here, we hardly ever use this room.’ She fussed, dithered and twirled, making her way to the door. ‘I will be back in one moment,’ she said, ‘please, make yourself comfortable, we will light a fire.’
    And then she was gone. Cyrena waited for silence, then swiftly crossed the room, searching out the Gladstone bag which skulked behind the chair.
    Several minutes later, Ghertrude returned carrying a dressing gown and a tray with a flask of warm milk laced with rum. Mutter followed, holding kindling and logs. Cyrena had returned to her seat, but her colour had changed; she was pallid, and her smile was drawn over clenched teeth. The preoccupied hostess failed to notice the change in her friend; she was too busy lighting the fire and laying out the drinks. Ghertrude offered the dressing gown for her damp friend to step into, holding it out with a smile and a flourish, like a suddenly joyful matador. Cyrena donned the gown and they sat together with their warming drinks in front of the blazing fire. Mutter left the room without a word, but with a significant glance at Ghertrude, which they both assumed Cyrena was oblivious to.
    ‘Cyrena, please forgive my appalling behaviour. I am very tired and under the weather.’
    ‘I should have told you I was going to visit, I think I took you by surprise,’ said Cyrena, sipping her drink.
    ‘No, no, you are always welcome. Now tell me about what you have been doing.’
    Cyrena was not prepared to change the subject, but patronised her friend for a moment.
    ‘Oh, this and that, attempting to find another purpose in my life.’
    Ghertrude raised a quizzical eyebrow and cocked her head.
    ‘Did you hear about Hoffman?’ Cyrena probed.
    ‘Oh! Yes, he disappeared, didn’t he?’
    ‘Off the face of the earth.’
    Ghertrude changed the subject immediately, though only as far as Hoffman’s unfortunate accomplice. ‘And what about the other one? Maclish!’
    ‘Yes, he too, apparently.’
    They put their drinks down simultaneously, as if to mark the end of a difficult conversation.
    ‘I feel I must apologise again,’ said Ghertrude.
    ‘You mean for not trusting me?’ said Cyrena, closing in.
    ‘Well, no, I meant…’
    ‘I know what you meant. And I know what’s disturbing you,’ interrupted the older woman.
    ‘I am just unwell,’ Ghertrude stammered.
    ‘Don’t lie to me! I deserve more than this,’ replied Cyrena, her voice rising and changing pitch. ‘I truly am your friend; now tell me the truth!’
    Ghertrude was silent.
    ‘Ghertrude, tell me the truth; I already know what you are hiding.’
    ‘It is… very difficult for me to say,’ said Ghertrude gently.
    Cyrena looked at her silently, her eyes dark and demanding. She would not be deterred.
    ‘Very well,’ Ghertrude sighed. ‘I am pregnant.’
    * * *

    The two wounded men made their way out of the Vorrh, to the island where Nebsuel dwelt. Tsungali’s hidden boat could not be used: the cyclops was too skittish